by Jason Elam
For days afterward, Hassan and Ghalib had remained paralyzed in their apartment, waiting for the inevitable knock. Hassan knew that the amount of explosives and accompanying electronics squirreled away in their small living space was enough to send them both to prison for many years. The television said that the raid on their madrassa had been just one of a massive series of raids across the country that had effectively put an end to the Cause in America.
Confused and frightened, the brothers had prayed for direction for their next steps. It had all seemed so right and so clear as they’d listened and studied and grown through the wisdom of Sheikh Yusuf. Step one, step two, step three—it was a formula that would lead them directly to paradise. But now they were on their own. Allah knew their hearts, and he knew the paths they should take. He must speak to them now.
The beginnings of their answer came one night as they were watching the television. A special report broke into the investigative crime show, telling of a suicide attack on a bus in Portland, Oregon. Two days later, word came that another bomb had gone off at a religious music festival in Illinois. A day after that, two more explosions took place in Dallas, Texas, and Charlotte, North Carolina.
That was when Hassan realized that Allah was speaking to him. Leaderless cells like his were no longer looking to men for guidance. They were looking directly to God. And what would God have Hassan and Ghalib do? Finish what they had started!
That “aha” moment had taken place three nights ago. Now Hassan and Ghalib were ready to make their own mark in the cause of Islam. Tomorrow the brothers would each don a vest containing twenty-five pounds of explosives and several thousand flathead screws, travel to the National Zoo, and then continue their journey to paradise. On a crowded Saturday, the death and mayhem left behind would be considerable. And if a few wild cats happened to escape in the aftermath, well, the terror would just be prolonged.
Hassan reached into a doorless cabinet to get a tin of tea and two cups. As the kettle began to whistle, another sound struck Hassan’s ear—a slight scraping sound on the wooden floor. He turned in time to see a thick, black wire sliding back underneath the front door.
“What . . . ? Ghalib!” he yelled as the door burst open.
Three masked figures dressed all in black and carrying automatic weapons rushed into the room. A confusing cacophony of orders filled the apartment: “Drop!” “Don’t move!” “Get on the floor now!” Hassan froze in place as one of the barrels trained itself on his chest.
Then he saw something that caused his heart to sink at the same time that it swelled with pride and envy. Ghalib was diving for the vest nearest himself. The tall man in the middle of the group fired two quick shots, striking the young man in the head and chest. Hassan closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he saw Ghalib on the ground—blood rapidly pooling around him. Thankfully, the shots had spun him the other direction, so Hassan didn’t have to see what the bullets had done to his brother’s face.
“I said get on your knees now!” The rifle stock of the man nearest Hassan drove into his thigh, dropping him to the ground and bringing his attention away from Ghalib’s body. Two more dark figures had entered the room, and he could see more movement outside in the hall.
“Clear,” one of the men said as he came out of the apartment’s bathroom.
“Clear,” another echoed as he exited the bedroom.
“Cuff him, Tommy,” the tall man said as he made his way toward Hassan. Hard plastic encircled Hassan’s wrists and pinched his flesh as it was pulled tight. “Let him stand.”
Hassan felt a hand slip under his armpit and easily lift him to his feet. The man giving the orders reached up and pulled his mask off, revealing a face highlighted by distant, melancholy eyes; a slight, wry smile; and a goatee that hung four inches below his chin.
“Why’d your brother have to go and make me shoot him, Hassan? If only he’d stayed nice and calm like you.” The man accentuated the last words by patting Hassan lightly on the face. Then he grabbed Hassan’s face tightly and turned it toward Ghalib. Together they stared at the body.
Finally, he spoke. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. What a waste.” Then, with a quick sigh, he released his grip. “Tell you what, Hassan: Mr. Li here is going to take you on a little drive to a place where we can talk more privately—you know, sort of like a get-acquainted session. You might not be surprised to find out that I have a few questions I’d like to ask you.”
With that, the man turned and walked out the door, leaving Hassan dizzy, scared, and more than a little sick to his stomach.
Tuesday, July 7, 7:25 p.m. EDT
Washington, D.C.
Scott Ross cursed under his breath as he left the room. For all his bravado, the truth was he hated taking a life. It didn’t matter what the person had done or was planning to do; every time he pulled that trigger, it put a little more darkness into his soul.
Realizing that his exit from the room had been a little premature, Scott said into his comm system, “Gilly, secure the apartment, then wait for the tech geeks to get there.”
“You got it, boss,” came Gilly Posada’s voice through Scott’s earpiece.
A lot of changes had taken place in Scott’s life recently. After Jim Hicks, the former head of the counterterrorism division’s experimental Front Range Response Team, had ignored established jurisdictions and broken every interagency rule by hacking other intelligence agencies’ information—and then had the audacity to get himself killed in an unauthorized covert operation on foreign soil—the upper muckety-mucks of Homeland Security had decided that enough was enough. Maybe their CTD response teams were a little too Wild West. Eventually, the whole concept was scrapped, the people reassigned.
Although Scott had been able to keep his analyst and ops teams together, they had been transferred en masse to Washington, D.C., where eyes and ears could keep tabs on them. Those eyes and ears were stifling. Political correctness ruled the capital. Public opinion seemed to be determined more by George Soros and the Huffington Post than by the public itself. As a result, Scott found himself having to analyze his every move before he made it just to decide whether the political fallout was worth the end result.
The big move had occurred just under a week ago, and Scott’s team had hit the ground running. This was the second terrorist cell they had broken up in as many days. And as long as they were out hunting bad guys, the new situation was tenable. But back at the office, things were very different.
After the absolute freedom of the brief Jim Hicks era, Scott was finding his new situation extremely confining. He could already imagine the reports he was going to have to write and the hearings he would have to endure for shooting this kid. At least he still had some autonomy as a special operations group leader. Stanley Porter, the head of the counterterrorism division, gave Scott’s SOG team more leniency than most. But Porter could only allow the lines to be stretched so far before he felt the wrath of his own superiors at Homeland Security.
This kid . . . that’s what ticked Scott off so much. Ghalib al-Aini had been only nineteen years old. And you killed him . . . put a gun against his head, pulled my trigger; now he’s dead. Since coming to CTD, Scott had killed more people than he had in all his years with the Air Force Special Operations Command—not necessarily a statistic he had anticipated when he had e-mailed his résumé for the analyst desk jockey job.
And it wasn’t just the killing that got him down. It was seeing the wasted lives. Hassan al-Aini is going to disappear into some prison, never to be heard from again. His whole life is done—he’s never going to have a wife, never going to have kids, never going to contribute to society. That’s it, no más, exit stage left and Heavens to Murgatroyd!
As he stepped from the building into the warm night air, Scott thought, You’re going to have to decide how long you’re gonna keep at this. Is this really the life you want? All this killing’s making you into someone you don’t want to be. All these wasted lives are turning you into a cynic
. Now you know why Jim drank so much.
Until last week, Scott could relieve some of this pressure by hopping into his ’73 Chevy panel van and driving over to Riley Covington’s house. Scott would stretch out on the leather couch in Riley’s great room, feet kicked up on the coffee table, and settle in for an evening of chatting. Eventually perspective would begin to take hold. By the time Riley dead-bolted the door behind him, Scott would be in a much better frame of mind.
But now fifteen hundred miles separated Scott from that sofa. He leaned against the building and tried to shut out the flash of police lights and the bustle of activity all around him. Well, if you don’t have the hand you want, you just gotta work with the hand you’re dealt.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a cell phone. He pressed speed dial three, and after two rings a voice answered, “Yo, Homeslice, what up?”
Scott breathed a sigh of relief when he heard his friend’s voice. “Pach, dude, you gonna be home later tonight? I think I need a little couch time, even if it’s only by phone.”
A minute later Scott slid the phone back into his pocket. The wry smile gently began tugging again at the corners of his mouth. Riley Covington’s last words to him—Anything, anytime, anywhere—echoed in his mind, and the elusive peace that Scott so desperately needed slowly began to make its migration back home.
Sunday, July 12, 11:30 p.m. KST
North Korea–China Border
The sounds of dice and laughter announced the patrol boat minutes before it slowly drifted into view on the Amnok River. There was just enough light on the deck for Pak Kun to make out two men on watch—one manning the spotlight and one the mounted gun.
Pak Kun huddled down in the fetid mud on the North Korean side of the river. His makeshift raft had been almost completely uncovered when he first heard the sounds of the approaching boat. Panicking, he had hastily thrown the branches back on. Now he prayed that the covering would be enough.
It was one week ago that Pak Kun’s cousin, Pak Bae, had come to Chosan bearing gifts for the extended family. Nearly twenty family members had shown up at the railroad station to celebrate this rare visit. Even the cousins’ great-grandfather, Pak Bae’s namesake, had shuffled his way to the reunion.
Pak Bae was led to an old tree where a picnic had been set up. For the next hour, while everyone feasted on cheonggukjang, kimchi, and the wonderfully sweet tteok, laughter and the occasional gasp filled the air as stories were told of city life. Pak Kun laughed until his sides hurt as Pak Bae, who from childhood had always had a gift for impersonations, imitated some of the important men who came to get gas at his station.
As always, the time had passed much too quickly, and soon it was time for Pak Bae to catch the train for his return trip to Pyongyang. Hugs, kisses, and blessings were given all around. After Pak Kun received his hug, he separated from his cousin but still held on to his hands as they spoke their words of farewell. When he finally let go, Pak Kun stepped away, turned to cough, and slipped a small, waterproof sheath into his mouth. As the family waved at the departing train, Pak Kun was already planning the journey he would take one week later.
Now, as the river mud oozed up between his toes, Pak Kun’s tongue slowly ran along that sheath. He wondered what secrets were held in that soft little container—diagrams for a weapons system, plans for an attack, petitions for helping a people’s insurrection? Sure, an insurrection—that will be the day, he thought, shaking his head. Our army is too strong, our leaders too corrupt, and our people too used to being beaten down. Any change for our country is going to have to come from the outside, not the inside.
Pak Kun’s body tensed as the sweep of the spotlight got closer. He tried to sink deeper into the mud and rotting vegetation. He knew what would happen if he was caught. In his mind he replayed the vision from two years earlier of four badly beaten bodies hanging by their necks from a tree in the town square for three weeks before the police finally cut them down.
Something brushed against Pak Kun’s ankles, causing him to gasp. He looked down to see a water snake slowly gliding between his legs. He dared not move. He prayed the noise he’d made hadn’t been enough to attract the attention of the boat. But a moment later, everything around him lit up like the middle of the day.
It took all his self-control to hold still the last few seconds until the snake glided into the water. Then Pak Kun eased down to his stomach. While he inched his way deeper into the brush, he heard soldiers’ voices. Then a large-caliber gun began firing.
All around him bushes and trees shredded. Branches, leaves, and bugs fell over him. Be invisible, he thought. Please let me be invisible. Then, as abruptly as the firing began, it ended. Pak Kun could hear an angry voice coming from the boat.
“What are you shooting at, you toad?”
“I heard a noise, then saw that raft, sir,” a second voice said.
“Where? What raft? That little thing? That’s it? That’s probably just some peasant’s fishing boat.”
“But I heard a rustling, sir!”
“A rustling? You heard a rustling? Imagine that. There are bats and weasels all around this river, and you heard a rustling! Did you see anything?”
“No . . . no, sir.”
“Then why did you scare us all half to death by firing at an empty riverbank, you ignorant fool? Idiot! Double shift for you tonight! Who knows, maybe you’ll discover a rebel band of river otters preparing for a sneak attack!”
Laughter sounded from the boat as the engines started up. From his hiding place, Pak Kun watched the spotlight continue its sweeping of the shore as the patrol slowly floated downriver. He waited a few extra minutes, and then carefully slid back down to the raft.
While there were definitely some chunks taken out of it, it still looked seaworthy enough. Even if it did sink, the place where Pak Kun made his crossings was only a third of a kilometer across. He had just finished hiking through seven kilometers of forest. Surely he could swim that short distance if need be.
After pulling the brush off the raft, he eased it from the mud and into the water. Using a small, homemade paddle, he pushed himself away from shore and into the lazy current.
As he paddled, Pak Kun thought of the day his cousin, Pak Bae, had first asked him to become part of this treason. Although they had been like brothers ever since they were babies, Pak Bae’s voice was noticeably shaking as he explained what he had recently become involved in. It was obvious he knew that with one word from Pak Kun to the authorities, he would be a dead man.
Pak Kun was stunned as he silently listened to his cousin. Sure, everyone broke little laws here and there. You did what you had to do to survive. But treason? Espionage? That was dangerous.
Pak Kun had not given his cousin an answer immediately. Instead, he had wrestled with the decision for a night. Do I really have the right to put my whole family at risk? Can an insignificant peasant like me really stand up against the Kim regime?
By the time the first rooster crowed, Pak Kun had made up his mind. There were millions of his fellow Koreans standing by and not doing anything—many because they were afraid, but many others because there was nothing they could do. If he had a chance to make any sort of difference, he owed it to those helpless millions, he owed it to his ancestors who had built this country, and he owed it to the future generations of Koreans.
But if he was caught, he would be just another nameless sacrifice to the Great Leader.
Today was his fourth trip across the North Korean–Chinese border since that day eighteen months ago. Although each trip left him with physical and emotional scars, he still hoped there would be many more.
Finally Pak Kun’s raft slid onto the muck of the opposite shore. He hopped out and pulled it into the bushes. After climbing up the steep banks, he made his way to a barbed wire fence. It’s interesting, he thought as he snipped away with his cutters. Our troops patrol the rivers to keep our people in, and the Chinese build fences to keep our people out.
> After widening the hole he had just created, Pak Kun crept through the fence. A moment later, trusting in the darkness of the night, he left the security of the brush. In his hand he carried eight small river stones.
About five hundred meters from the small delta on which he had made his landing was a dirt road. The road was narrow and consisted of two ruts dug into the soil from centuries of cart wheels. Pak Kun found a place on the side of the road that was clear of decomposing ox dung, then laid out the stones, forming a small T.
Pak Kun quickly made his way back to the riverbank and found a particular tree. He walked around to the river-facing side, removed the sheath from his mouth, and tucked it into the crook of a branch.
Silently asking his ancestors to protect the message, he slipped back through the fence and onto his raft. Pak Kun still had a dangerous and exhausting journey ahead of him before the new sunrise came, and with it another long day at the textile factory in Chosan.
Monday, July 13, 10:45 a.m. MDT
Inverness Training Center, Centennial, Colorado
Riley’s eyes opened, and the first thing he heard was shouting off to his left. He shook his head and tried to clear the cobwebs. Then the pain hit. It started like a small seed just under his right ear and soon grew to encompass everything from the neck up. His jaw felt like it had been nailed with a Kathy Bates sledgehammer swing, and he could taste blood in his mouth. There was a tickle under his nose, and when he went to wipe it, his hand came away red.
What is all that shouting? he wondered. A hand slid under him, helping him to sit up on the grass.
